The Rules of the Street
by Kate Lynn
Summary: {Completed!} Rummy, a gambler and thief, plays by a very different set of rules than the Newsies. However, the new leader of Harlem forces Spot to put his trust in him, where both sides of the street learn some new rules. PLEASE R/R!
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Newsies. Its all Disney's—except for Rummy, he's all mine 8-) 

Note: I love Spot. This is Spot's show. Enjoy!

The Rules of the Street 

A Newsies novella by Kate, alias Fable

Part 1: The Name of the Game Is…

Being a thief was excellent training for numerous professions, both legal and illegal. Rummy knew this fact, because he had grown up around prosperous thieves all of his life. In his own right, he was a superb thief, having been one as far back as he could remember. He, and his sister Kitty, they had been some of the best back in Jersey. Kitty had been a wonderful mentor in that respect. Several years older than Rummy, she had introduced Rummy to the trade long before it had even been necessary for their survival. Their parents had not been rich, and stealing was a quick and easy solution. So was gambling, from which Rummy had earned his name. Not because he had been that great a player, but Kitty's boyfriend had been, and so that is what he and everyone began calling him. He couldn't remember his real name, and somehow, Rummy had become it.

He owed a great deal to Kitty. She was an amazing survivor. After their parents had died, they had headed to Manhattan, where the money was even looser. No, he elevated her status; she not only survived but also thrived. The rules of the street were simple. Look out for yourself, and never look back. Kitty had done that, and instilled it into him repeatedly. No love had ever been felt between them, but there had been respect. Love and affection were not possible if one wanted to succeed in life. Rummy believed that, because it had been the only way he had seen anyone in their circumstances make it. So he could not really be angry for Kitty leaving him stranded. She had landed herself a rich man, a weak one who was crazy about her, but not so much about Rummy. She might have been able to coax her man into taking Rummy out west as well, but that would mean sharing his funds with Rummy. Once landing this opportunity, Kitty wasn't planning on doing anything to jeopardize her milking her man out of everything he owned. So Kitty had simply told Rummy as much, and he had nodded, picked up his things, and left. She probably told her fiancé that she had sent him to the Refuge or something. After all, her fiancé would have been aghast at the idea of just turning a kid out onto the streets like she did. He didn't understand the rules of the street. 

So that was his story. Looking it over, he felt no emotion about it, as he didn't remember ever having. He was now starting over, getting out of Manhattan, since the bulls had been getting too quick there. Unfortunately, he had headed to Brooklyn, where he found much the same. It didn't make sense, for the bulls to suddenly develop mental abilities, but there you had it. And rule number one for survival-be smart. No need to risk getting thrown in jail for years, where you'd lose all you'd worked for and become rusty. No, it was better to lay low for a while. He did card tricks and small gambling on street corners and in alleys. He knew enough cheating tricks to survive, and he felt proud to live up to his name, even if his opponents weren't really that tough.

He was closing up shop on a street corner. All he could think of was food, for he hadn't eaten in a few days. He quickly tried to push the thought away. He needed to be practical and save his money to where he could afford some kind of private place to stay, to hold bigger gambling events to get to know the lowdown on the people of the streets of Brooklyn. That way, when the heat from the bulls finally let up, he'd be ready to get back to his real business.

He was near the pier today. He stared out at the sea blankly, not feeling much of anything till he almost tripped on some small object on the ground. He cursed silently and looked down, picked up the object, and examined it. It was a slingshot, sturdy but not really remarkable. But then, Rummy didn't really know anything about slingshots, so maybe this one was special. He was considering this fact so deeply that he didn't notice several people standing beside him till one of them spoke.

"Hey kid, what do you thing you're doing?" Rummy cringed listening to the thick, horrible accent of Brooklyn and turned to face a boy not much older looking than himself. He didn't look that remarkable, but Rummy was smart enough to know not to judge based on physical appearances. The cold glint in the boy's blue eyes, his secure posture and small smirk belied his rather small physic. So did the respectable distance the other, larger boys behind him gave him. 

"I didn't think I was doing anything special enough to speak of." Rummy wasn't easily frightened. Fright was an emotion, and just like all emotions wasn't worth being acknowledged. Several of the boys smirked, but the one who had spoken before merely pointed at Rummy's hand with a gold tipped cane and said, "Where'd you get that?"

At that, Rummy looked back down at the slingshot in his hand and almost smiled in amusement. He had always thought of slingshots as little kids' toys, but he got the feeling that this one belonged to the boy in front of him, who looked about sixteen. "I just picked it up a second ago. If it's yours, you can have it back." At that, Rummy extended the hand that held the slingshot out to the boy, and several behind him flinched at his quick motion. The one with the cane before him didn't, but he looked suspiciously and questioningly at Rummy for a second. Rummy couldn't understand at all what this was about, so he just stood there silently until the boy said,

"What, you're just going to hand it right back over?" His voice was edged with an incredulous tone.

"Rummy shrugged, not getting the big deal. "Why not? I don't want it. It's for little kids." What was he supposed to do, hack it to some little newsie kid for a penny? That was below his standards.

At that, the boy stepped closer, and the ones behind him began laughing menacingly. In a low voice that exuded intimidation, he said, "What's your name, kid? I like to know the names of the people I soak."

Rummy was not a fighter. He thought it barbaric, although at times he saw others find it effective. Rummy had always used his quick mind and mouth to talk himself out of trouble. It was a game at first, but then he turned it into a skill that he would improve and employ, like stealing and gambling. In his mind, they were all connected, and far greater challenges that physical combat. Sure, sometimes it hadn't worked and he'd had the crap kicked out of him, but he knew he would never make a really good fighter, so he'd decided long ago to cultivate his strengths. That strength was talking.

Thrusting the slingshot into the kid's hand, Rummy said smoothly, "No need. Here's the slingshot, everyone's happy. Better take better care of it, and see you…"

Before he could finish he felt rather than saw a fist connecting with his lower jaw. Flung flat on his back, Rummy shook his head clear and stood up slowly. The laughing boys had started to form a circle, and the one was the cane stood before him, fists raised in trained precision. He was obviously not new to these soakings.

With fury the boy said, "How dare you say that about me, telling me how to take care of things! I'll kill ya!" The others cheered shouting, "Go, Spot" And yelling "Soak him, Conlon!" But Rummy simply stood calmly before the boy, Spot he supposed, never getting into a fighting position or running away. After a moment the cheering died down, and Spot, slowly lowering his fists a bit, asked, "Ain't you gonna fight?"

Just as calmly Rummy responded, "No. What would be the point? I don't fight, and if I tried it would only prolong this. So I'd rather just stand here, and let you get it over with. Although I must tell you, knocking me senseless won't get me to admit whatever it is that you want me to. Why don't you just tell my what you want me to say or do?"

At that, Spot let a small glimmer of amusement show in his stone façade. Rummy guessed not many spoke like this around here. "Fine. Admit that you are a damn dirty liar and have no idea what the hell you are talking about. And that you are a wuss on top of it."

Shrugging, Rummy repeated the words verbatim, to the surprise of all those before him. No one was laughing anymore, all were too shocked that a guy would be willing to say such things about himself, especially one who didn't appear to be shaking in fear of Spot.

Spot slowly circled Rummy. Rummy had to admit, this Spot had the intimidation act down pat. If Rummy still cared at all about anything, especially his physical well being, he'd be begging at Spot's feet just now. Impressive indeed.

Spot stopped and said, "Ya didn't say it like you meant it."

"That's because I don't. And before you start, soaking me won't make me believe it any more, as I said. It would work better if you just told me that someone had stolen it from you and put it there. Or that you had put it there yourself as some kind of trap. Hell, even say that this is the first time you've lost it. Any of those would have given me reason to believe that you take good care of the slingshot, and say that my comment was unwarranted. Why don't we just go with one of those answers, so I'll just say honestly that, in that case, you are right and I am sorry, and I can leave now." Rummy was starting to go when he actually heard a laugh from Spot.

"Man, you don't need to fight. You could kill anyone by talking them to death!" He didn't sound that angry anymore, he was just highly amused. Since Spot was, the other ones became as well. Rummy guessed they were some kind of lackeys or goons.

"At the very least, you could put people to sleep with that mouth of yours. Hey fellas, we got ourselves our own walking mouth!" For some reason, that sent everyone into fits of laughter, though Rummy couldn't figure out why. It must be an inside joke, he figured. Spot was asking him his name, and one of the goons felt secure enough to speak up. "How 'bout Wuss?"

Spot turned and gave his henchman a withering look that shut him up. Rummy began to have some respect for this Spot. For him to have this great an amount of authority, he must be more than a common thug. Turning back and waiting for an answer, Rummy noticed keen interest in Spot's eyes. They didn't have the glazed over look that most of the others did. Figuring no harm could come of it, he responded, "Rummy."

Spot responded, "And I'm Spot Conlon." He quickly then pummeled Rummy's jaw again on the other side, sending him flying back again. Before he could think, he saw Spot standing over him, offering him a hand up. Not feeling like being hit again, he refused the hand until Spot said, "That's to help ya keep your mouth shut for a few days till you learn who you can go off on. I ain't one of them. Consider that a free lesson and sign of a truce, and we won't be having any more problems. Fair?"

He was good. It was very clever of him to have done this. Rummy could tell that Spot was not really upset anymore over what he had said, but to save face, and keep the bigger goons from bothering him, he'd made a strategic move. No doubt Spot Conlon was aware of the rules of the street.

Accepting his hand, Rummy said,  "No harm done." Upon being lifted upright, he heard Spot ask, "So, what do you do, ki-Rummy? I ain't seen you before, and I know everyone in my territory."

His territory? Rummy wondered what he meant, but answered, "I just came to Brooklyn a few days ago."

Spot nodded, obviously not satisfied. "Uh-huh. So, what do you do? You in school? You sound like it."

Rummy shook his head no. "Not anymore. I was for awhile, but then I lost my family and I can't afford it anymore."

"So you've been living on the streets? Ya can't have for that long, since you don't look beat up, and with that mouth of yours and that not fighting policy, you should be. How do you make money?"

Spot was very observant. Of course, Rummy wasn't going to tell him what he really did for a living, or the fact that he had been a street rat almost all his life. Living in shacks with Kitty was practically the same thing, and he knew how to figure people out and not take stupid risks to put himself in dangerous positions. A careful thief was…a not dead one. "No, I'm fairly new….I play cards a bit, that's how I've been making a living. It isn't that good, but…" He shrugged, figuring he'd given enough information that resembled the truth to where he wouldn't be easily caught out. 

Spot seemed to take it. "Oh yeah, I heard that there was a new shark in town. Been keeping to yourself though, no big hands or nothing. Good thinking, with the bulls on everyone. You're pretty smart. Ever think about being a newsie?"

That took Rummy a bit by surprise. He thought newsies had to know how to read to make it, and most of those before him looked like they couldn't figure out how to open a paper, let alone read it. 

Spot took his surprise for indecision. "It ain't that bad a gig. It's probably safer than gambling right now, with the bulls so tight. You'd probably make more too, considering you can't do much cards now, except in the alleys. I've been looking for some new newsies, since some losers of mine-well, ill just say that I've been looking for some new blood. Ya interested?"

Spot was right, Rummy thought. The safest thing to do now to earn money was something legal, where he couldn't get caught. He'd have a place to stay at nights if he could afford it, and he would earn some till whatever that was in the water making the bulls so smart wore off. It shouldn't be that long. They were probably just after some criminal, and once he was caught, things would calm down and Rummy could get back to planning his career comeback. He could probably even still fit in some gambling rings in between selling the papers, earning even more. It was a win-win situation, if one was possible for him.

Looking at Spot, he nodded and said, "Ok, sounds good. I'm in." At that Spot grinned and spit into his hand, extending it towards Rummy. Rummy stared at it for a moment, before hesitantly taking the wet hand in his. Several of the goons stepped forward at that, and Spot frowned. Rummy cringed internally, wondering what the hell he'd done wrong now. There seemed to be different rules of the street for newsies than there was for thieves. 

"You're supposed to spit in your hand first, then take mine. To seal the deal, kinda." Spot informed him, glaring to keep his boys back. 

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know that. Is there any other thing I have to do or know to be a newsie?" No harm in asking.

Spot grinned. It wasn't a warm look by far, but at least it was no longer menacing. He strolled over to Rummy and said casually, "Yeah, there is. THIS!" At that, he gave Rummy a sound push that caused Rummy to fall into the water behind him. He came up, sputtering and freezing to find Spot and the others leaning over the docks, grinning. "Now you're initiated, Rummy. I do that to all my new boys. Kinda a bonding thing. If you don't freeze from it or die of pneumonia, I'll like ya all the better for it." At that, he extended his hand to Rummy, who thought swiftly about pulling Spot in with him, but quickly thought against it. He took Spot's help, and soon was standing sopping before everyone. After a quick bout of cheers at his humiliation, Spot sent the others off to get the evening editions. They all rumbled off, leaving Spot and Rummy standing together.

"Sorry I didn't introduce you to everyone. I'll make sure to do that tonight. Now we'd better get our papes."

"Like this?" Rummy asked, shivering and pointing to his drenched clothes. Spot shrugged, unsympathetically. "You'll drip dry. If ya plan on sleeping inside tonight, ya gotta sell some. Besides, no one would give you any clothes to borrow. It ain't smart to share your things." At that, he started walking. Rummy followed, nodding his understanding. No one knew him, and even if they did, lending something as important as clothes out to another was a bad risk. Some rules of the street never changed.

No surprise, his theft background paid off in the selling of papes. Used to making up stories on the spot to get out of a sticky situation, he found that exaggerating the headlines was pretty easy. He also got some sympathy, for being wet he guessed made him look more pitiful. Spot sold near him, keeping his eye on Rummy all the time. Rummy guessed that it was as much for his benefit as for looking out for Rummy. For all Spot knew, Rummy would bolt or do something to make Spot decide he wasn't worth the opportunity given to him. Street rats like him and Rummy didn't do anything that they didn't have a personal interest or gain in. 

It didn't take all that long, but for Rummy, who was starving and freezing, it seemed interminable. Spot sold all his before Rummy, but came over to stand by him, watching till Rummy finished. By the end, Rummy's voice was almost gone, and he was dying of thirst. He turned around, grimacing, to see Spot's ever-watchful eye scrutinizing him. An amused grin that Rummy had seen before and seemed to be a trademark of Spot's was in place. "So, whatcha think?"

"I think cards are easier." At that, Spot grinned a bit wider and said, "I can think of someone who would agree with you in Manhattan." The mere mention of Manhattan sent Rummy's mind to Kitty, and their loft. He hadn't been exactly happy there, but-no, thinking about the past was against the rules. He followed Spot in silence, letting Spot lead him through the city. As they passed, he saw many girls smiling and waving at Spot, who returned them all, faithfully if insincerely. Rummy himself got a few glances and smiles, which he returned. Growing up around prostitutes, thieves, and gamblers, he didn't think of women past his carnal lust for them. Maybe one day he'd find one who was as quick as she was pretty, and they'd become partners, but until then Rummy saw no need of any relationship with them other than physical.

Spot seemed to think the same, because he told Rummy in his low voice, "They ain't got much upstairs, but they get excited by the idea of dating street scum like us. Use them if ya want, but I prefer the girl newsies. They're just in it for the fun too, don't take all that relationship crap too seriously, and they can actually talk about stuff. But, it's your decision." 

Rummy nodded, understanding exactly what Spot was talking about. Love he could never give, but the only girls he could stand and like to have around were thieves, like him. They, like Spot and the other newsies probably, understood life, at least what their lives, where about. 

Spot took him to a run-down Italian diner close to the pier. Inside, all the newsies he had seen earlier, plus some new ones, turned to stare. Spot confidently walked in, pointing and naming people as he went. "That's Smoke, Blade, Feisty, Basket Case, Carver, Badger, and Brute. Over there's Apollo, Smarmy, Crackhead, and Gruff. They're my boys. And here," he said, stopping in front of the third table, "Are some fellas who ain't." Rummy noticed that his eyes, which were always guarded, became even more so with these supposed outsiders. Funny, he had been a newsie less than half a day, and already he was calling these people outsiders?

Three of the five guys sitting at the table stood up. Spot spit shook with all of them, then made the introductions. "This here from Manhattan is Jacky-boy, also known as Cowboy, Racetrack, and Kid Blink. Fellas, this here's my new newsie, Rummy. Jack's the leader of the Manhattan newsies." Rummy assumed that that meant that the tall boy in the cowboy hat was similar to Spot. Obviously, if there were leaders, Spot was it for Brooklyn. Rummy spat shook with the guys, receiving acceptance because of Spot. The Manhattan newsies smiles were somehow fuller, more open than any of the Brooklyn newsies. They seemed much friendlier, and as Spot and Jack sat down at the table with the two not introduced, Race and Blink steered him to another table.

"So, your nickname is Rummy? That mean ya like to gamble, play cards?" The one called Racetrack was asking him. Rummy was distracted by the obvious deep conversation going on at the other table. Turning back, he responded, "Uh, no, that's my real name. But yeah, I can play. Who are the other two at the table?" He inquired, gesturing back at Spot's table.

Blink paused, then said, "The one on the left is Count, the new leader of Harlem. The other one is a crony of his, called Buck."

"So, what do they want?"

"Um," Blink and Race stared at each other. "It's…nothing, I'm sure," Race said quickly. "Hey, so when did you join up with Spot?"

"Earlier today. I guess I insulted him, so he hit me twice, threw me into the water, and asked me if I wanted to be a newsie. That's the short story."

Race and Blink laughed, and Race said, "And after all that, you agreed to do this? Ya must be a madman!"

"Hey, that's it!" Blink exclaimed, grinning. Crap, did the guy ever stop smiling? Rummy wondered. He never knew Manhattan was such a happy place for the destitute. "That can be your nickname, Madman!"

He and Race laughed, and Rummy said, "Why do I need a nickname?" That caused a bit of a pause, but then Race said, "Well, we all got nicknames. It's just the way the newsie thing works, like an initiation thing."

"Well, its better than being thrown in the East River," Rummy acknowledged wryly. That caused Race and Blink to laugh again, and Race slung his arm over Rummy's shoulders and said, "I love this guy! You're hysterical. Listen, if you're serious about gambling, I can set you up in some nice games." 

Feeling uncomfortable at the physical contact, Rummy nonetheless perked up. "You can? Even with the bulls?"

"OH, yeah, I got some connections. Granted, it ain't the highest stakes, but you don't wanna get in with that crowd anyway. I can still fix ya up for some decent rounds, if you're interested." 

"Oh, sure," Rummy tried to sound enthusiastic, not showing his disappointment. High stakes was where he wanted, and intended, to be. It was only a matter of time. And being friends, or at least acquaintances, with Spot seemed to be a good career move. In a mood that as closely resembled happiness as he would allow himself, he ordered a full plate of food, and spent the night talking with Blink and Race, who turned out to be funny and nice, if a little too nice, guys.


	2. The Game Plan

Disclaimer-I own nothing related to Newsies  
  
Note-I have no idea where those weird numbers at the beginning of the fic came from. Sorry about it, but I don't know how to fix it either.  
  
Part 2: The Game Plan  
  
Spot looked over the three men sitting before him. Only Count was smiling, trying to give the appearance of aloof confidence. Spot had never met him before, but he knew about him from Jack and some others. The only information repeated was that he was fairly new, extremely ambitious, and intimidating. In only six months he had taken over Harlem, and had unspoken control over midtown. Last Spot had heard, he was starting to shake things up in Manhattan and the Bronx. At least, that's what Jack had told him. And Jack didn't normally go to anybody outside to confide in or for help. He was the best leader for Manhattan, all his boys liked him and were loyal, and he was great at keeping things in line. Manhattan wasn't as tough or intimidating as Brooklyn, but Spot was no idiot. Manhattan newsies were smart, for the most part, and kept their system flowing in order. They could normally quench a problem easily, and the times they needed more force, Brooklyn was there. Spot and Jack went way back, and while Spot didn't have any friends, Jack was as close to one as they came. Brooklyn and Manhattan respected and helped each other, producing a solid alliance. Anyone who seriously threatened one did so to the other, everyone knew that. So what was this Count guy doing, it was like suicide!  
  
And yet he sat there, smiling away. It grated Spot to no end, making him want to throw him outside and soak him. But that wasn't what this meeting was about, and anyway, the bulls might be near. Some might think Spot wasn't this prudent, but in actuality, he only fought when necessary or when he couldn't be caught. Well, most of the time. But if he fought as much as his reputation led others to believe, he doubted he would have time to breathe. He'd earned his feared reputation; he didn't have to prove that he was the best fighter anymore, though he did so enough to keep in practice.  
  
"So basically, what you guys are asking me is, what are my intentions regarding your territory?" Count asked this snidely. He was tall and muscular, but so were a lot of guys. He was also a good talker and thinker- it made sense he was a leader, Spot had to admit.  
  
"That, and why did ya take midtown from Skirts, and been bothering the Bronx and me?" Jack appeared unfazed by Count's attitude.  
  
Count shrugged. "It was there, boys. Skirts wasn't doing that great a job, you know it. So I thought I could do better, and I have. I just want what's best for all the newsies, and I humbly think that's me. But you guys don't have anything to worry about. You are great leaders. I'm sorry you got the wrong impression, I'll find out whose been bothering ya and make them stop. So if that's all, I'll be going." Count and Buck stood up. Count spit and held his hand out, and reluctantly Jack and Spot both took it. As they left, Jack leaned over to Spot and whispered, "Ya believe any of that?"  
  
Spot turned back. "Hell no." He looked Jack in the eyes. "We gotta take him down soon Jacky boy. Without causing a huge riot from all his newsies. I hear they are loyal to him, and a fight between us and Harlem and Midtown wouldn't be pretty."  
  
"I agree. But Spot-" Jack hesitated, then said, "I heard that how he got Harlem, and Midtown, was partially by infiltrating. You know, getting some guys inside to talk to the others, get the scoop on the leader and bad mouth him."  
  
"Yeah, I knows Jacky. It happened here. That's why I threw their asses out weeks ago, and am in need of some new newsies." His voice trailed off as he realized what Jack was saying. "Ya mean Rummy?"  
  
Jack nodded. "Admit it Spot, he ain't like a newsie. And it's kinda weird he just showed up now, and-"  
  
"Yeah, I got ya Jacky boy. My gut tells me he's ok, but that's what I got a head for, to not listen to my gut. He doesn't act like a newsie because he's new to the streets, I think. I'm gonna give him a chance. But don't worry, I'll keep my eye out. I don't trust nobody fully."  
  
Jack nodded. Spot knew he didn't agree with the no-trust policy. Jack had a few newsies, plus a girl, that he completely trusted. But, they were his friends and girlfriend. So far Jack hadn't found this to be a problem, but then, he didn't live in Brooklyn. And here, Spot wouldn't befriend or fully trust anyone. He trusted his newsies to beat up anyone who soaked him, or to lie to keep him from the scabs and bulls, but not to choose his own possible well being over theirs. Only the leader took that unspoken oath in Brooklyn, and Spot did so because he cared about his position, and about his newsies. That was just how it was done in Brooklyn.  
  
It was late when Jack and Spot left the restaurant. All the other newsies had left, including Rummy. Spot had liked him once he had seen how smart and pragmatic the kid was. He could be useful to have on his side, but now Jack had given him something new to worry about. Something he was kicking himself for not having thought of. But still, quick thinking newsies like Rummy were always in demand in Brooklyn, kinda the way big tough ones were in Manhattan. Two of the smart, select few in Brooklyn Spot had thrown out after they betrayed Brooklyn to Count. So hopefully-  
  
Spot was thinking so deep that he didn't notice a cat dart out from the shadows between his legs until it was too late. Trying futilely, he twisted awkwardly before crashing into the river. A sharp pain hit him in his ankle, followed by the pain of freezing water. Cursing himself, he heard Jack laughing and called out, "Hey, some help would be appreciated here!"  
  
"Spot Conlon asking for help? I must not have heard right. Say that again?" Jack was leaning over, and jumped back, grinning, as Spot tried to splash him.  
  
"Stuff it, Cowgirl, I think I hurt my ankle." Jack finally got serious, and pulled Spot out. Spot sat for a moment on the docks, feeling his throbbing left ankle. Jack stood over him, asking, "Spotty, ya ok?"  
  
Through gritted teeth, Spot stood up and answered, "Ya, of course, when am I not? I just sprained the damn thing. Nothing's broken." Like I'm a doctor and can tell he said silently to himself. Jack shrugged. "K, if ya say so. Anyway, I gotta be getting back to Manhattan. But I'll see ya real soon, Spot. Im gonna talk to Twig from the Bronx tomorrow afternoon, then we'll meet up later."  
  
Jack tipped his hat back and sprinted down the alley before Spot could say bye. Feeling the beginning drops of rain, he couldn't say he blamed Jack. He shivered in his short-sleeved striped shirt, but realized it was futile to look for shelter when he was already this wet. He tested his ankle. It hurt like hell, but it would support him. Walking at an incredibly slow pace, Spot limped through the streets of Brooklyn, the long walk to the boarding house never seeming longer.  
  
It as pouring when he got there twenty minutes later, but Spot thought to himself, ha, its no good rain, its so cold out my body has lost all feeling and I can't even feel your damn rain anymore! So there, now who's the loser? Such random insane thoughts came to him at the most inappropriate times, and of course he never shared with others what amused him. They happened frequently enough so that the other newsies, upon seeing their leader wet, limping, and laughing, were not ready to declare him mentally unfit.  
  
Crackhead, one of the younger Brooklyn newsies so named because he had a large scar on his head from it being cracked open, looked up from playing cards to ask, "Heya Spot, you ok?" Crackhead was one of the nicer newsies Spot knew. He smiled a lot. Spot often thought of him as Blink reincarnated. He could be annoying, since he seemed to worship Spot and tried to emulate him, but he was a good kid.  
  
Spot smiled his small smile at him. "Yeah, I just initiated myself, thanks to a fricking cat tripping me." At that, all the newsies who had heard him sniggered. It was ok to laugh at Spot when he made fun of himself. Briefly. Spot turned and limped up the stairs. Upstairs was the large bunk room and washroom. Not wanting to get his bed wet, he settled himself down on the floor next to his single bed-the only single in the room, all the other newsies had to share doubles. Spot began gingerly pulling off his left shoe. Crackhead flopped stomach down across the bed next to Spot, watching him. The few other newsies in the room also looked up, but Spot didn't pay enough attention to care.  
  
It was a fight. The swollen ankle didn't want to give up the shoe that easy, and Spot breathed hard, forcing no sound to come out in pain as he yanked it off. Tossing it aside, he pulled off his sock to examine more closely. It was swollen and bruising already. Spot gingerly moved it around, and finding that he could, sighed in relief. He had only used crutches once before, when his ankle was broken, and it had been an experience he did not care to repeat. Satisfied with his original diagnosis, he pushed himself to the washroom to change. Coming out, he saw Crackhead still eyeing him. Tired and in pain, he tried to quell his temper by asking, "So where's Rummy?"  
  
"The new guy? You mean Madman!" Crackhead sat up in his bunk. Spot sank down into his, questioning, "Madman? Who came up with that?"  
  
"Uh, it was either Race or Blink, but they said that was his new name." Crackhead frowned. "Can them Manhattan newsies name one of ours?"  
  
"Course, Crack, it ain't illegal." Spot was still freezing. He hadn't felt that well for a few days, one of the reasons he might of gone a little easy on Rummy. That bout in the rain certainly wasn't going to help.  
  
Crackhead was still chattering. "Well, it oughta be! Anyway, Race took him to some gambling thing, they should be back soon. Just what we need around here, another gambler, right? Hey, Spot, what's up?"  
  
"Nothing Crack. I was just realizing there are three walking mouths out there in New York." His hand was pressed over his temples, and he'd drawn the covers over himself. Feeling Crack looking at him, he glanced and snapped, "What?"  
  
Crack jumped up. "Nothing, Spot. Sorry. Feel better. Can I get you anything?" Damn him. The kid was too nice for this life. Most of the newsies Spot knew didn't earn his sympathy. They didn't need it, they were too concerned about themselves. Spot was that way, but Crack wasn't. And he never would be-two years on the streets hadn't done it yet. Guilty, Spot once again wondered what the hell Crack looked up to him for when Rummy walked into the room.  
  
Spot pushed himself upright and threw off the blanket. He summoned Rummy over, and motioned him to take the empty bunk vacated by Crack. Rummy did so and looked back at him, eyes of stone. Respectful, but without a hint of concern for how awful Spot knew he looked. But that was the Brooklyn newsies. They would become concerned when Spot's health affected them, and until then would mind their own business, wrapped up in their own lives.  
  
"So, how was your first day as a newsie?"  
  
Rummy shrugged. "Pretty good. I don't know if I'll be staying here, at the lodge. I would earn more if I slept on the streets."  
  
Spot nodded. "This is true, but I don't think it's worth it. Brooklyn can be pretty nasty at night, without the other newsies. But it's your decision. You went with Race?"  
  
Yeah, to some poker thing. It was ok, nothing too steep. He's nice. All of Manhattan seems.nice." Upon hearing that, Spot laughed.  
  
"Yeah, they are a regular happy little touchy feel-y family. Kinda sickening, but they're good guys. Madman," Spot said, trying out the new nickname. Rummy looked up, and out of the blue asked, "What's your real name, Spot?"  
  
Spot was taken aback. "What's it to ya?"  
  
Rummy shrugged. "I don't know. Do you like having a nickname?"  
  
Spot shrugged. "Spot's been my name for so long, it ain't a nickname anymore. It is my name."  
  
"Yeah, I guess I can understand that. Rummy is a nickname too, that stuck and became mine."  
  
"Yeah, but that was from your old life. Ya can't hang on to that."  
  
"Yah, that's true. Good rule. Ok, Madman it is."  
  
By this time Spot had laid back down and looked sleepy. He forced his eyelids open and said, "It don't have to be Madman. Crack's right, Manhattan gave ya that one. Some guys have more than one. Jacky's also Cowboy, and some of the boys outside of here call me Brooklyn. It's all good." At that he yawned, apparently ending the conversation. But Rummy hadn't been watching him, and added, "So what would it be? I don't get it, it should have something to do about my personality or a physical characteristic, right?"  
  
Spot groaned into his pillow. "Christ, it ain't that important! Ya got time to think of one."  
  
"Maybe Bookman, I heard someone say that when they saw me bringing up all my novels. But still, I don't know. Spot?" Rummy turned and found Spot asleep, his head buried under his pillow. Rummy smiled and said quietly, "You must have been tired, you didn't even soak me in the mouth again to shut up." He then rose and headed to an empty bunk. He and the rest of the newsies undressed and went to bed, grateful that they were undercover, since they all knew what it felt like not to be.  
  
Spot was actually buried under the pillow for other reasons than to keep out Rummy's yapping. He felt his chest itch, and as hard as he tried to stop the urge to cough, it was a losing battle. Not wanting to keep all the others up all night, he resigned himself to almost suffocation. After awhile he couldn't take it, and he didn't hear the rain outside anymore, so he crept out onto the roof. There he could hack to his heart's content, which he did till he heard signs of life stirring in the bunk room. Morning had come much to soon, seen as he hadn't slept at all, and also seemed never to come, since the roof itself was still wet and he had been trembling in the cold.  
  
Swinging inside, he landed one footed on the right side and clambered for the washroom. He ran hot water over his hands and face for five minutes, trying to ignore the usual loud banter from the boys next to him. He saw a towel being held in front of his face by Badger. After Jack, Badger was the closest thing Spot had to a friend. Meaning, he occasionally expressed concern for Spot's well being without idolizing him. Badger was unofficially Spot's second in command. Smart like Rummy but a great fighter as well, Badger was a true Brooklyn newsie. He took care of the others and listened to Spot, occasionally giving his opinion when asked but otherwise knowing it was Spot's show. Badger could have been a threat to Spot had he had it in him to be back-stabbing, but he hadn't. In the three years Spot had control, and the five years Spot had known him before that, Badger never did anything to raise Spot's suspicions. There was mutual respect on both sides, as well as the fact that they got along fairly well. Acknowledging the benefits of their being allies, they power chain was smooth.  
  
So it was not uncommon for Badger, aware of the troubled times, to raise concern about his leader. "Ya ok there, Spotty?" Only those newsies who had known Spot from before he had become the leader dared call him Spotty.  
  
Spot answered honestly, "If ok means feeling like death revived, then yeah. I sprained my ankle last night and fell into the river, and I think I got the flu or a bad cold now."  
  
Badger nodded, sympathetically. "Bad timing. You sure you can sell papes?"  
  
Flaring, Spot replied, "Do I have a choice? Wouldn't that look good to get around to Count, the leader of Brooklyn tied to a sickbed."  
  
In his irritatingly calm, monotonous voice, Badger said, "I think everyone knows you're sick, Spot. It wasn't exactly a secret, we could hear you last night, and look at you this morning."  
  
Spot threw the towel down and limped to his bed, pulling on a long-sleeved shirt. "I know that's not a mystery, but they don't know how sick, and it would look worse if I just stayed here."  
  
Badger shrugged. "Can't argue with that." Spot looked at him, furious, and Badger said calmly, "You want me to lie? It would look bad if you didn't sell. That doesn't mean ya have too, I'm just agreeing with you- "  
  
"Shut up!" Spot stomped past him. "I swear, what is it with you talking mouths all of a sudden?!" Badger hurried after him, not understanding the insult but knowing it was time to avoid Conlon and his famous temper. The Brooklyn Lodging House was much more worn than the Manhattan one, but it had character, the Brooklyn newsies boasted. The ornamentation was hand made, like the carvings of pictures, quotes, and names that ran down the wall by the staircase. Every newsie for god knows how long had something on that wall. The only rule was you had to be a Brooklyn newsie, and most of what was up there were inside jokes that visitors, even other newsies outside Brooklyn, didn't understand. Against another wall was drawn on targets for slingshot practice, and in the middle of the floor was a mock- chalk outline of a dead body. They had nicknamed the outline Mat. Simmons who ran the lodging house couldn't care less about the place or the boys in it, so long as they paid the fee. It wasn't cozy to any, but it was home to the Brooklyn newsies, one of the few possessions they shared with pride.  
  
Exiting through the door that held the sign Newsboys Lodgings with visitors welcome if female scrawled underneath, Spot and Badger made the short trek to get their papes. Spot paused before reluctantly asking for his usual, one hundred. He didn't know if he could sell them all, but everyone was standing around, and he couldn't very well ask for less. He was Spot Conlon. Badger also took a hundred, and Spot noticed that Rummy had as well. He smiled. Rummy was sorely mistaken if he thought he was going to be able to sell so close to him again today. He wasn't running a charity help organization!  
  
"Ok boys, everyone get to your corners. Rummy, go around and find a place that ain't within looking distance of another newsie. If it's good, claim it. Don't steal someone's spot or they'll soak ya, no matter how much you talk." Rummy looked slightly embarrassed, but nodded quickly. Spot felt bad about having singled him out in public, but he didn't have the energy for tact. Making his way to his spot, the best in Brooklyn, hence his name, he attempted to sell. It hadn't been the best spot when he had started as a newsie. In fact, the corner was overlooked by most, because it had been near Bridge's, the previous Brooklyn leader. Nobody could outsell Bridge, and anyone who had stood at that spot lost customers to Bridge. Spot always loved a challenge, and had made the spot successful, boasting that wherever he was became THE spot to sell. Bridge had laughed, tossed Spot into the river, and daily they had had selling competitions to see who could sell more the quickest. Whenever Spot won Bridge would throw him into the river. They never associated with each other except during those times, but he must have impressed Bridge, because when he lay dying he named Spot the new leader.  
  
Well, you woulda won today, Bridge, Spot thought to himself as he finished selling only half. Normally by now he was close to being finished, and he still had fifty. He felt dizzy, and figured a break was needed. Being near the pier, he headed down and lay on a set of caskets near the water. Closing his eyes and listening to the water, he was thinking of just throwing the rest of the papes into the river when he heard Jack and Twig.  
  
"Hey, ya bum. I swear, that's how them Brooklyn newsies get so intimidating. All they do is lounge around thinking of ways to terrorize others." Twig, the leader of the Bronx, smiled at Spot. "Seriously, Cowboy, ya ever seen one of them actually selling a pape?" Smaller than Spot, she was still tall for a girl, giving her the name Twig. A year older than Spot, she was the perfect image of a girl newsie. Tough and street smart, she was a good leader, maybe a bit too compassionate for Spot's taste, but still, he hadn't heard any real complaints from the Bronx about her. Nothing delicate or frail about her, she demanded to be treated as any other newsie, and since a lot were intimidated by her, that wasn't a problem. Spot had never met her boyfriend, but he bet she had him whipped as well.  
  
With difficulty, Spot sat up, his back to the sun, hoping the shadows would prevent them from seeing his sick face. "Hey Twig, Jacky boy. I hear the Bronx is doing well, considering. Congrats to ya."  
  
Twig seemed pleased to be receiving praise for her territory, but it was quickly overshadowed by the events that had led them to Brooklyn. "Actually Brooklyn, its gotten worse. A lot." She cast a worried glance at Jack, imploring him to finish for her.  
  
Jack sighed. "The Bronx is gonna get hit tonight." Spot stared at him, and asked, "How do ya know that?"  
  
"Well, Count ain't the only one with insiders. Snicky's got a buddy down there in Harlem, and it sounds pretty definite."  
  
"Well, not to be the bad guy, but it could be a set-up." Spot couldn't believe that they were getting that riled up over a suspicion.  
  
"It's more than that, Spot. We snuck in, actually heard them making these plans. They didn't see us, otherwise the would have soaked us-thirty to two, they might of won."  
  
Spot tried to get his brain to think. "Ya sure they didn't want you to hear this?"  
  
Twig stepped in. "I don't think so. Look, I think we might be giving this Count too much credit. Why would he make this up? To get us all to the Bronx, so he would have an even tougher time beating us? To get to Manhattan? We know he's been fishing around Manhattan and my territory, so if that's it, we've got that covered too. We'll have runners stationed between the Bronx and Manhattan, so if any trouble happens in either place, we can hear about it and get there."  
  
Spot thought it over. "Yeah, ok, the worst is that we waste an evening. But what if he tries for Brooklyn?"  
  
Jack said, "I get your concern, but he hasn't been scouting Brooklyn, he's made his focus on mine and Twig's space. Not to inflate your ego, but Brooklyn will probably be the toughest for him to get, without going through Manhattan first."  
  
Spot nodded slowly. "Ok. I'll come with ya, and maybe take some of my boys to help. But first I'm gonna tell Badger what's up, have him post some lookout boys around here, just in case. I gotta look after my newsies too." Twig and Jack nodded, understanding completely. They agreed to meet in the Bronx in three hours. Spot headed back to his corner, not feeling any better but knowing that he needed to sell these since it was obvious he wasn't going to be there for the evening edition. After a little over an hour, he managed to sell them. Exhausted and aching, he sat down right there on the curb, only looking up when Rummy walked over to him. "Hey Spot, I ain't intruding on your territory if I don't have any papes to sell, am I?" He stopped joking and sat down next to Spot when he saw Spot's face. A bit of actual concern in his voice, he asked, "You ok?"  
  
Spot couldn't deny it. "I ain't feeling too good. Too much time on my feet, I guess." Rummy nodded and then asked, "Maybe going to get some food at the diner would make you feel better? I'm supposed to meet Badger there now."  
  
The mere thought of food made Spot so nauseous he thought he was going to throw up, even though he had had nothing to eat all day. "No, I don't think my stomach could take any deliveries right now. But, you said you was going to meet Badger?" That gave Spot an idea. He wasn't sure it was worth the risk, but he was thinking of sending Rummy to relay his message about Count, the Bronx, and security to Badger. Besides the fact that he was running late to get to the Bronx, knowing he would have to take it slow, he also had no desire to be walking any further than absolutely necessary. If he was going to fight later that night, he needed to conserve any strength he had. And this would be an excellent way to test Rummy's reliability. Granted, it could be dangerous-if Rummy turned out to be a scab and Count really was after Brooklyn, it could hurt the boys Spot was entrusted to take care of. But he couldn't help trusting Rummy, and anyway, the chances of things going wrong were slim.  
  
So Spot relayed the information and orders to Rummy, who listened intently and then hurried off. His demeanor gave no sign of anything incriminating, but still, Spot couldn't shake the uneasy feeling inside of him that it was a mistake. That he had just endangered all the Brooklyn newsies lives, lives that he had sworn to protect over anything else. But situations came up, didn't they? Spot sighed, trudging to the Bronx. Such was the life of a leader. 


	3. Place Your Bets

Disclaimer-I own nothing Newsies related. Sue me not  
  
Part 3: Place Your Bets  
  
The Newsgirl's Lodging House had carpeting. It wasn't nice or new carpeting by far, but still, how fair was this? Race was pondering this when he saw Spot wave him over. They had been there for hours with no word. He sifted through the crowd. Every newsie from the Bronx was there, as well as delegations from Manhattan and Brooklyn. The other territories weren't invited, their loyalty being uncertain as of yet. Race was a bit miffed that he was here. It was the unspoken rule that he was second in command to Jack, but Blink had been left in charge back in Manhattan.  
  
Spot was laying on the floor, taking obvious advantage of the carpeting. "It's so sad to see such an uncultured newsie. Spot, do we have to go over what furniture is for again?" Race couldn't resist. He knew full well that all the furniture was taken. Spot could have easily gotten someone out of their seat, but he seemed more comfortable lying down. Spot did nothing more than throw the makeshift ball he'd been tossing around at Race, who easily caught it. He sat down on the floor next to Spot, who sat up groaning. "Shaddup. I got something to ask ya."  
  
"Like why I'm here and not in Manhattan? Why I have been striped of my rank and pride? Why the hell I let myself beat Jack last night in poker, if this is the punishment for it?"  
  
Spot looked at him as if he'd grown another head. "Hell no. Why would I care about that? No, I wanted to ask what you thought about Rummy?"  
  
Race, a little miffed at his rant being ended, responded, "Oh, Madman? He seemed ok. Not the friendliest guy I've ever met, but when he said he didn't fight, I knew he was the one to try my tricks out on. Unfortunately, he knew most of them. Good gambler. Seemed smart. Why?"  
  
Spot shook his head. "I dunno. I guess that I'm a little nervous. What with everything going on, it's kinda hard for me to trust him."  
  
Race said, mock shocked, "Hard for Spot Conlon to trust somebody? Get out. That's a headline even too shocking for me to have made up."  
  
Spot gave him a smart-ass look right back. Not seriously, he retorted, "Ya wanna mess with me, Higgins?" He laughed when Race made the sign of the cross in a fake plea for mercy, then added, standing up, "Don't take being here as an insult, Race. Jacky needed ya here. It's a compliment."  
  
Race seemed about to make another of his infamous remarks, but instead offered, "Thanks, Brooklyn. Really. Ya got some class, after all!" For Race, that was a restrained, sincere comment, but before the fuzzy little moment could continue for him, a sweaty, panting Boots ran into the room. Gasping, it took him a moment to get his breath. In the meantime, a huge crown had gathered around him, all watching with tense faces. Finally, when Boots could speak, Jack asked, "What is it, Boots?! Its is Manhattan? We gotta go, now!"  
  
Jack started pushing for the door, but Boots' voice stopped him. "No! No, Jack, it ain't Manhattan. Manhattan's fine, for now."  
  
"Well, it can't be the Bronx, were all here!" Twig broke in nervously, looking terrified that she had somehow forgotten something and now her territory and newsies were sunk. Both Jack and Spot could relate, for there was nothing worse than the feeling that you had let your newsies down.  
  
Boots was still impatient to get the truth out. "Listen to me everyone! It ain't Manhattan, it ain't the Bronx, but someplace was hit tonight. It was." Boots paused, slowly looking over at Spot. All eyes turned towards Spot, and he felt his body go numb, followed by his face becoming flaming and anger boiling in him.  
  
Boots looked terrified. No doubt this had been one mission none of the newsies had wanted to take. "It-It-It, It was, It was Brooklyn, Spot. They was hit real bad. I talked to the one that came over to Manhattan to tell us, and he said they had no idea it was coming. But they think it's over now Spot. Spot?" Long before Boots had finished Spot had run out the door, no doubt back to Brooklyn. The other three Brooklyn newsies tore after him. Boots looked near tears, his fear of being the killed messenger replaced now with the brevity of the news. Twig pulled him compassionately into a quick embrace, before sending some of her best newsies to follow Spot. It wasn't as if she didn't want to go herself, but she still had to worry about the Bronx. Once that was secure, that no other attack would happen, she would go over.  
  
Jack understood that. He should be getting back to Manhattan. Now that Brooklyn was hit, no doubt fears and anxieties would be running high, and as the leader he was responsible for calming everyone down and thinking of a new line of attack. But it was Brooklyn. In both senses of the word. Jack wasn't sure Spot would do it for him, hell, he wasn't sure any leader would, if Twig wouldn't. But he had to. Turning to Race, he began to speak, when Race said, "I'm on it. I'll be back in Manhattan with Boots in no time."  
  
Jack nodded his thanks, and with the rest of the Manhattan newsies who had come to the Bronx, and some of Twig's men, took off after Spot. 


	4. Bluffing Ain't Cheating

Disclaimer-I own nothing Newsies related. It's all Disney  
  
Part 4: Bluffing Ain't Cheating  
  
Spot didn't think he'd ever run the distance between the Bronx lodgings and Brooklyn's faster, yet it seemed as if everything was going in slow motion. His chest and legs felt on fire, but that made no more than a small awareness in his brain. He was too rapped up in his fury at himself and guilty terror for his newsies to think of anything else. Faintly he began to hear the pounding and voices of the three newsies he had picked up on his way to the Bronx chasing after him. Slash, Slugger and No Neck, three good ones of his. Why hadn't he sent one of them back to Brooklyn, to make sure Rummy had passed on the message?  
  
Rummy. The sudden thought of him threw all of Spot's fury in his direction. The scab. The lying, rotten, soon to be dead traitor! Sure, it had been Spot's fault for trusting him. He would have to answer to that, no matter what the consequences were. But first he had to destroy Rummy. Soak him, torture him, make him squeal for mercy and then punish him some more. Spot had never soaked anyone bad enough to kill them. He'd come close, but most of the time he'd been able to pull himself back at the last minute, and the few times his temper was too out of control, Jack or one of his boys had done something. He was grateful to them for those times, but felt that neither he nor anyone who witnessed his dealing with Rummy would mind him going all the way.  
  
It had begun to rain slightly. Spot would not have noticed if he hadn't heard a faint whimper of, "No.rain.God, help.me..freezing." The voice was weak, and belonged to a crumpled up body laying on the street, not too far from the bridge. There was something familiar in it, but no. It couldn't be Carver. Spot's newsies didn't whimper.they didn't get beaten that badly..  
  
Breathless, trembling with what he could only admit to himself was fear, Spot slowly approached the fallen figure and knelt beside it. Gently touching the shoulder, Spot was the recipient of a bloodied, toothless, broken Carver. Carver, who towered above Spot. Carver, who was eighteen and about to leave the newsies for a real job on a fishing boat. Carver who was smart and attractive and loyal and someone who had once got a few good punches in on Spot when he had just come on board, but who had turned out to be a trustworthy and fearless newsie.  
  
Spot couldn't speak. He couldn't think. Carver took a minute to acknowledge who he was, and then he teared up. In a broken voice, he whispered, "I'm.so.sorry, Spotty. I.sent the others out looking for you.and.Badger."  
  
Spot found his voice. "What others?"  
  
"When.they.didn't come back, I tried to go.after them. But.we got hit. I tried to.chase them out.I .almost made it, Spot.see how close I am to the bridge.I almost.chased them out.away from the others..but they went back for them.."  
  
Carver's voice was failing. Spot gingerly reached for his hand, but then pulled it back. Comfort was not what Carver would want. He was a Brooklyn newsie. He wanted Spot the leader, not Spot the healer or Spot the comforter. Spot gripped Carver's shoulder, and said strongly, "You sure did. You're a Brooklyn newsie, through and through. When we hit 'em back, you get first crack at Count. Ya earned it."  
  
Carver smiled weakly. "Do it for me, Spot. I'll be watching.somewhere.if what my mother always said is true."  
  
Spot shook his head vehemently, but Carver said, insistently despite his tiring frame, "I ain't scared about nothing. Go.and see the others.they should be around somewhere back there.take care a' them, like ya always.do. You'd be proud of them."  
  
"They shouldn't want my praise, especially since I let this happen to you all. And I ain't leaving you." With that, Spot began hoisting Carver up, supporting the larger boy's frame. Carver groaned, then said, "Don't waste the resources.there's plenty of newsies who can make it.take care of them, first.then.come back for the lost causes."  
  
"Carver, you're a lost cause at slingshots. But you ain't never gonna let some Harlem scum make you a lost cause, ya from Brooklyn. I got three other guys who'll pick up the others. If everyone's hands are full, and there is someone worse off then you, ill dump your ass and pick them up. But I doubt there will be. Agreed?" Not bothering to listen to him, Spot began to trek back to the house. By this time, all the other newsies who had followed him had caught up. Jack and No Neck offered to take Carver, but Spot refused. Instead he said, "Spread out guys! Find the Brooklyn newsies in the streets like Carver. If they're really bad off, take them to the hospital, if not, back to the lodge, ill meet you there."  
  
Spot got a dark, menacing piercing in his eyes that all noticed. Only Jack had the guts to step forward and say, "I'll come with you, Spot. I won't interfere, unless I see your gonna do something stupid that you can't see because your too worried and mad because of your boys. You'd do the same for me."  
  
Spot turned to Jack, and the look he gave him was frighteningly calm. "I ain't gonna regret killing the bastard. You get in my way, ill soak you too." With that, he slung Carver carefully into Jack's arms, saying, "Take him to a hospital! I got business to finish." With that, he took off down the dark alley.  
  
Jack sighed. He couldn't blame Spot. And anyway, Rummy was the only reasonable reason Jack could think of as to why this had happened. He hoped Spot didn't kill him, until they had assessed the damages and determined what should be done, but looking at Carver, Jack couldn't help thinking that if this were one of his newsies, he'd kill Rummy. Then he saw Carver stir.  
  
He tried to calm him, but the next words Carver spoke shut everyone up. "Spot..is wrong.its.not.Rummy.." Thrusting Carver off for a third time, Jack tore off after Spot, leaving the others to the orders Spot had left them.  
  
There's a first time for everything. Kitty had said that about Rummy's first time stealing. Probing his disjointed shoulder, he now had the same thought about fighting. Only this time he hoped there would be no follow- up. Rummy hadn't faired that well in the battle, but he certainly wasn't the worst off. But then, the worst off where the guys who had done the best fighting, they'd retaliated better than he had, and had suffered worse consequences. Seeing as he was nothing compared to them, he'd gotten off fairly easily. It had only been when he began giving some sound strategy to the others, mainly, find Spot and try to get as close to Manhattan as possible for reinforcements, that he'd been knocked out.  
  
By the time he'd recovered, the loft was almost empty, except for some seriously injured newsies, a few trying to help them, and the dead body of Badger. It was lying on his bunk, having been defended to the bitter end by the Brooklyn newsies when Count's goons had attacked. Rummy's mother had been a nurse, so he was a bit informed as to treating some of the newsies. Also, a lot of it was simple common sense. Treat the ones who stand the best chance first, and when they got word that Harlem was gone, take the seriously wounded to the hospital. Silently, most had followed his suggestion, but a few were stuck by the lost causes. Rummy didn't disturb them, figuring that they needed companionship more than medical treatment at the moment.  
  
Rummy attempted to take the pulse of one of the younger newsies, to which he received none. Emotionlessly closing the child's eyes, he moved on to wash out and wrap an arm wound on another when a racket up the stairs made him turn in alarm. All the newsies stood up, battered but more than willing to battle. To their relief, the wet and disordered appearance of Spot stood in the doorway. The few words of praise or anger where immediately silenced when seeing Spot's expression. His thunderous eyes scanned the room slowly, before landing harshly on Rummy. His lip curled up in hatred, and his hand removed his cane. Firmly he began to walk towards Rummy, never uttering a word until he stood only a few feet from him, daring Rummy to speak.  
  
Rummy was slightly confused. He could understand Spot's fury, but it all seemed directed at him. He hadn't been that bad in the fight, he'd tried his best, and he was helping now. What could Spot possibly be ready to murder him for? Unless.  
  
Rummy's eyes widened in realization. Holding his hands up before him, he stammered, "No Spot, it isn't what you think, I didn't.." Before he could say anything else, Spot's cane connected with the center of his face. Rummy reeled backwards, clutching his bloody, broken nose. All the other newsies were too shocked to move, and all Spot did as he advanced again was cluck his tongue mockingly and say, "Don't worry. Soon I'll fix it for you so you'll never have to worry about coming up with another lie again. Especially when your dead, you God damn scab!"  
  
The next few minutes were a blur for Rummy. He was no match for Spot, even a sick but enraged Spot. Spot was a fast fighter, but he was also a calculating one. He didn't make mad, missing swings. He was vaguely aware that his jaw popped, his ribs' snapped, and his head thudded when Spot threw him across the room. Then suddenly, the barrage stopped. Rummy tried to clear his head, but couldn't. It didn't make sense for Spot to stop. He was injured, sure, but he was sure Spot wouldn't stop until he was dead. For what Spot thought he had done, it only made sense for Spot to kill him, unless he was getting a worse weapon to use on him. That would make sense.  
  
Suddenly he heard a voice that did not belong to Brooklyn. Or in Brooklyn. After a moment, he realized it belonged to Jack, the cowboy guy. Shifting his head painfully, he saw Jack and several of the Brooklyn newsies barely holding Spot back. They were trying to calm him, but all Spot did was shout, "Let go a' me, Jack! I swear, ill kill you too! And guys, I don't care if you don't want me as your leader anymore, I understand that, just let me take care of this guy for ya first! We owe it to kill him!"  
  
"That's what we been trying to say Spot! First of all, he don't deserve it, if you'd listen, and second, you neither would nor could kill me, so knock off the empty threats and shut up!" Jack's voice was not as loud as Spot's, but at the moment it commanded more authority. It reminded Rummy the way Spot had first spoken to him when they met at the docks. Eventually Spot stopped struggling, and the newsies eased off, with Jack letting one hand rest on Spot's shoulder. Rummy wondering if Spot would have let him do so if he realized it.  
  
No one spoke. Finally, Rummy decided to be the first. It was hard looking into such eyes of stone, cold, hatred and malice, but he forced himself to. "First off Spot, I get why you almost killed me."  
  
"Don't forgive me yet, I'm still planning on it if ya don't give me a good reason not to in the next ten seconds." Spot's voice was lower, but he still looked ready to pounce.  
  
"Fine. Right to the chase. You think I didn't tell Badger what you told me. Well, I did. I'd say ask Badger, but you can't, since he's dead." Rummy gestured toward the limp body of Badger. At the sight, both Spot's and Jack's faces dropped, while the others looked downwards. The hard façade of Spot's cracked a bit as he crossed over to Badger and felt Badger's hand before ripping his back. He focused his eyes on Badger. Rummy, feeling disgusted with himself for the curt way he said that, continued.  
  
"I told him at lunch. Then I left him there. He said to be back at the lodge at seven, so I went and did some gambling. Amazingly the bulls weren't around, and Badger said he was going to tell everyone not to plan on selling this evening, so I figured, why not? I came back around seven, and no one had seen Badger. I thought that was strange, and asked who the last person was to talk to him and realized it was me. I pulled Carver aside and told him that Badger said he had something important to tell the newsies, and Carver sent a search party out. Well, awhile went by, and no one returned from the search party, but two others did come back, carrying Badger's body. When we saw that, I told everyone what you said, and Carver and some of the others were heading out after you and the search party when.it.happened. They came up here, tons of them, and we weren't ready."  
  
Rummy paused. "I could have told them earlier, right when I found out that Badger hadn't. But I didn't, I thought it best to find him first because maybe he had a reason not to. So in that respect, I did wait longer than I should have, though I didn't know it at the time. It was a bad judgment, and I want to be kicked for that, but it wasn't on purpose. I swear."  
  
Silence followed. Rummy could hear his heart and head beat, as well as his jaw crack. He was amazed he had been able to talk. Watching Spot, he could tell Spot had listened, even though his eyes never left Badger till he was done. Finally turning to face him, he said, "Whatever. It was still a bad idea trusting you. It's my fault I did that." He said this quietly, and then slowly left the room. Emotionlessly closing the door behind him, Spot left everyone speechless. Rummy turned to Jack as Jack said to him, "That ain't about you, what he said." Rummy nodded. He stopped Jack from going after Spot, saying, "There's something I gotta say to him first, Jack. And he needs to hear it from someone of Brooklyn, even if I'm not that good a specimen."  
  
Jack looked dubious, but finally agreed. "It can't take that long though." He looked into Rummy's eyes seriously, conveying the levity of the situation. "He needs to be here for Brooklyn and his newsies now, and he needs to believe that." Rummy nodded again, and quickly followed after Spot. 


	5. Show Your Hands

Disclaimer-I own nothing Newsies related  
  
Part 5: Show Your Hands  
  
Rummy found Spot in a dark corner of the lodge, leaning against the wall. Spot's large eyes appeared larger due to his sunken face, and deeper since they had lost the spark that defined them. He didn't appear to acknowledge that he was no longer alone even when Rummy was standing right in front of him. He didn't cry, of course. Rummy was sure that relieving capability had been knocked out of him by life. But his retreating into himself was just as bad. Wondering if he should risk a slap to his face to shake Spot out of his trance, Rummy suddenly thought of an even more shocking bit to share.  
  
Squatting down painfully in front of Spot, Rummy looked into his blank, empty eyes and said, "You were right." Not receiving any response, he added, "About not trusting me completely. I haven't been totally honest with you."  
  
Finally Spot's eyes, which had been staring at his, flickered with interest. A guarded interest that Rummy had seen before, implying that he still would be able to kill him if what he said next required it. "I'm a thief," he finished lamely. Spot didn't react for a few moments, then quietly said, "Why do you think I'd care to know about this now?"  
  
Rummy shrugged. "I always like being right about things. Good for self- confidence. But anyway, when we first met, you thought I stole your slingshot, so that didn't seem like the best time to share my occupation. I don't share it with many people anyway. The thing is, I can fool a lot of people. Maybe not as a newsie, but most people believe whatever story I tell them, be it I'm a gambler, or a street sweeper, or whatever. But you didn't."  
  
Spot did not look consoled. "It wasn't just me. I trusted ya. It was Jacky too that questioned ya."  
  
"Well, that makes sense. He's a leader too, which means that he has good insight, good feel for people and how to handle them, like you." Rummy was used to soothing egos, but doing it for someone he actually believed in was a new experience.  
  
At the mention of the word leader Spot looked crushed. "I ain't a good leader, I got my boys killed!" Rummy felt a small wrench of anger inside himself, but he hoped it didn't come out in his voice, "I did tell Badger. You were right to think something weird was up with me, but I could be trusted. How could anyone know what was going to happen to Badger?"  
  
Rummy guessed he hadn't succeeded in his anger management so well when he saw the surprised look in Spot's eyes. But he shot back, "It was my responsibility, to know. It was a perfect setup! Count looks like he's moving after Manhattan and the Bronx, meanwhile he has some of my scabbing newsies to tell him everything he needs to know about Brooklyn. Then he gets me and Jack outta the way..I should have known!"  
  
His fist pounding the wall for emphasis, Spot looked ready to start beating himself up when Rummy's next words must have shocked him. Rummy said quietly, "You're right again. It was a perfect setup. It was perfect. It was too good."  
  
Spot looked ready to kill him for such blasphemy as praising Count, but Rummy continued, "We never expected a massacre. That isn't the way things are done here, from what I've learned. What he did was unthinkable to us. To premeditate killing Badger,-they must have known you would tell him before leaving, since they specifically went after him- that has no honor. Even a thief like me knows a little about an honor code-I don't steal from children and I don't go around planning murder. Count has no morals, no honor code, is absolutely vicious. So now we know. It was a horrible way to find this out about him, but now we know what to expect from him. And we can start working out how to retaliate."  
  
When he finished, Spot merely looked coldly at him and said snidely, "We?" If he didn't look so pathetic at that moment, and if Rummy could actually throw a punch, he would have hit Spot. Instead, he rose stiffly to his feet and said, "Be petty with me all you want, Conlon. It's only hurting your newsies out there, who need their leader right now. I may be a thief and not a newsie, but I sure as hell am not going to sit out here taking your insults instead of helping out the people who saved my ass!" Rummy turned and was ready to stomp off when he heard Spot's voice. It was quiet and low, but not weak.  
  
"You sounded like you were going to help a lot longer than that. Why?" It made him stop. It was a fair question. After all, he never planned on being a newsie for that long. And he sure as hell hadn't planned on joining in on a life-endangering revenge plan. This wasn't his scene, and the people hit weren't his. It went against every self-preservation rule of the street there was, and Spot knew that. He had just found out that Rummy's allegiance to the Brooklyn newsies was a sham, a ploy, so he deserved to know where Rummy's newfound loyalty came from.  
  
Rummy turned, and honestly said, "I don't know. Wait, maybe I do. Well, I may be a lot of things, but a killer I'm not. I can stand people thinking a lot of false things about me, but the idea that you thought I'd killed Badger, I couldn't stand that. I guess because I respect you, and Badger. And the fact that I should of gone down with Badger, since I'm sure if Harlem knew that you had told me first they would have done me in too, I can't stand that either. I feel guilty too, for not telling the other newsies once I discovered that Badger hadn't by seven. Finally, the guys in there saved my ass at their own expense. I never thought anyone would do that, especially here."  
  
At that, Spot gave a small smile of pride. "I didn't, either. I think I might have misjudged some of my newsies."  
  
Rummy nodded. "I think I did too. They aren't the nicest guys, but when it really comes down to taking care of Brooklyn and each other, they're there when the chips are down. I owe them whatever I can do. To make up my mistake to them, because I owe it to them, and because I respect the hell out of them. I'm doing it for much the same reasons that you are. Have I talked enough, given enough good reasons now? My jaw is killing me."  
  
Spot smirked quirkily, his usual display of amusement. He stood up slowly, hand on the wall to steady himself. Before taking a hesitant step, he glanced toward the bunk room's door, and half-whispered, "I don't know if I deserve to be the leader anymore." He looked at Rummy, and then straightened himself up, forcing a confident look on his face. "But I do owe it to them, if they want me. And I owe Badger revenge. I guess I can only do that by going in there and leading, if they'll let me."  
  
"Of course they'll let you. You are Brooklyn, to them." Spot didn't give any acknowledgment that he heard Rummy, except that he pushed himself off the wall and strongly walked to the bunk room.  
  
The scene inside was much the same as it had been before, only a bit more crowded as injured newsies were brought in and left on beds for treatment. Several more reinforcements from Manhattan and the Bronx had arrived, along with extra linen, bandages, alcohol, water and food. Jack had been kneeling down on the floor, where some of the patients had to be placed since the beds were all taken, giving out water when Rummy and Spot reentered. Immediately Jack stood up and headed over. Spot's expression upon seeing the situation before him was so horrified that Rummy was worried he would run out again. But his street and leadership skills took over, and by the time Jack arrived by them he looked emotionally impenetrable.  
  
"You ok, Spot?" Jack asked. Spot nodded slowly. His voice cracked a bit, but he managed, "Loaded question. I think so. I gotta be, don't I?" Jack nodded back. "Yea, you do." With that, he and Spot went off, Spot stopping at every bedside to talk to the person there. Jack and several others stood at his side, relaying information on the newsies in the hospital, reinforcements, and damages. Somehow Spot took it all in calmly, reassuring everyone and directing any idle hands to jobs like distributing food, laying out linens to make makeshift beds on the floor, going on patrol and to the hospital, and patient care. Only a few times did he waver or get a distant look in his eyes, and Jack was there to put his hand on Spot's shoulder, gently directing him back to the problem but letting Spot lead. Shaking his head in amazement at both leaders, Rummy went back to the only thing he could offer at the moment, mediocre medical care and encouragement to the newsie patients.  
  
Thirteen had died so far, and another ten didn't have good prognoses. At least fifty were injured. Twenty-six still in the hospital. In the first moment Spot was able to think alone since the hit, he couldn't get the bleak details out of his mind. All of his strongest newsies were in the worst conditions. Count had known who to go after. It would take weeks to regroup and recuperate, far too long a delay. Spot expected Count and Harlem to reappear any second, or for word to come that they had attacked someplace else. Spot was amazed and grateful that Jack was still in Brooklyn, helping, rather than waiting for a possible ambush in Manhattan.  
  
The night was over. Spot, sitting down on a small free space on the floor in the bunk room, his aching back to the wall, realized this was the first time he had done so all night. He'd never felt so exhausted. He tried to focus on what else he could be doing at the moment. He hadn't even realized that his eyes had closed until he felt a soft shake on his shoulder, and heard Jack ask quietly, "Spot, you awake?"  
  
It was too hard to open his eyes, but he nodded and said hoarsely, "Yeah, Jack, I'm awake. What's up?"  
  
Spot heard Jack sit down next to him. His voice sounded strained. "I heard Carver didn't make it." Spot again felt a wrench in his gut, even though he had already heard. He simply forced his eyes open, and staring ahead said blankly, "I know." He looked over at Jack, and saw unabashed sympathy in his face. Jack never wanted any sympathy for himself, but he was always more than willing to give it out. But for some reason it didn't irritate Spot this time. He simply gave him a weak smile. "I'm ok, Jack. Really."  
  
Jack nodded. "We'll get them." Spot began to agree, but then couldn't hold back. "How, Jack? I lost all my best fighters! And the rest, they won't be ready to do that kind of soaking for a while. I don't even think I could do that much damage to anyone right now." Spot raised one of his hands, which trembled uncontrollably from sickness and exhaustion, for emphasis.  
  
"I know that. But we can't wait, either, Spot. Ya know that." Damn it, didn't Jack think he knew that? Slowly letting his breath out, he said, "I know that, Jack. You know I know that. If you have any suggestions, I'd be open to them." At that, Jack seemed just as lost.  
  
"I don't know. But I do know we gotta move fast. You think you'll be all right for a while? I want to go check on my newsies. And I'll talk to Twig and the others. Maybe get an idea." Jack looked anxiously at Spot. Spot didn't really want to be alone, but Jack had donated more than enough of his time. Spot forced a positive tone. "Course, Jack. I'll be fine. Thanks for everything. I'll see you tonight. We'll think of something by then." Jack agreed, with the same amount of false confidence, and they spit shook, and then he left.  
  
Trying to forget the wave of nerves that came over him, Spot observed the bunk room. New newsies had been called on watch, taking care of the injured. Others were sleeping in the halls. The only one still on medical detail was Rummy. Spot stared at him, not really feeling guilt over what he had done to him. He didn't have enough guilt left in him. Rummy looked almost as bad as he did. His nose was clearly broken, and hadn't been taped yet. Neither had any of his cuts, and his dislocated shoulder still hung uselessly. Rummy, like Spot and some of the other non-critically injured, had forgone using any of the supplies on themselves, suffering so there would be plenty for the seriously wounded. Maybe he felt a little guilt.  
  
Spot pushed himself into a standing position and called Rummy over. Rummy looked surprised, but did so. It looked as if the immediate panic was subsiding in everyone, giving everyone some breathing time. When Rummy stopped in front of Spot, Spot gave his crooked grin and said, "You look terrible. What did you do, get into a fight with a Brooklyn newsie?"  
  
Rummy, tired but willing, played along. "Yeah, for once I kept my trap shut and it turned out that it wasn't the best idea. Some Brooklyn freak knocked that awareness into me. How about you? I could say the same thing, looking at you."  
  
"No, I had it worse. I had to be the one to knock some awareness into some thieving freak." They both smiled, and then remembering where they were, turned somber. Spot shifted, feeling uncomfortable. "Look, Rummy.let me take care of that nose and shoulder for you." Rummy looked surprised, figuring that was not what Spot was going to say, but agreed. The both sat on the floor, Spot instructing. "Bit down on the collar of your shirt. I'm going to try to pop the shoulder joint back in first, and that way you won't bite off your tongue or crack a tooth. It hurts the worst when it's being put back, but try to stay relaxed and don't move. It should feel better soon after."  
  
Calmly following Spot's instructions, Rummy held up well, only jerking and grunting a bit as Spot swiftly pulled the arm back and upward, rolling the joint back in. He panted for a few moments afterward, but held up well. Spot was impressed. He'd seen some guys shriek when they had it done to them. He told Rummy so, and then set about taping up Rummy's nose and making a makeshift sling for his arm. As he was doing so, Rummy asked, "Where'd you learn to do that?"  
  
Spot shrugged. "On the streets, I guess. I've had it a few times myself. I've never broken my nose before, though. When something is this good looking, you don't want to mess up the masterpiece." Rummy gave a small laugh. When Spot was done, Rummy felt his bandages and said, "You did a good job. Ever think of being a nurse?"  
  
Spot threw the leftover bandages at him. "Shuddap." Then he grew serious. "Look, Rummy.thanks for what you did last night. I don't say thanks that often, but I mean it. You're a good newsie." Rummy grinned, taking that as the apology it was meant to be.  
  
Spot then sighed, looking at the rest of the newsies. Troubled, he said, "We aren't going to be ready to fight them. Physically, we won't be ready for a real fight in time." Looking around, Rummy had to agree. Trying to make Spot feel better, he joked lamely, "Well, I couldn't do the physical fighting thing, and I turned out all right." Suddenly, as soon as he'd finished speaking, Spot whirled around to stare at him. Rummy looked confused for a moment, then his eyes widened. A slow smile crossed his face to match Spot's quirky smirk. Rummy's grin widened fuller than it had in weeks. "You thinking what I'm thinking?" 


	6. Cahing In

Disclaimer-I own nothing Newsies related. Disney does.  
  
Part 6: Cashing In  
  
It felt risky, going outside of Brooklyn so soon. It was only a few hours after Spot and Rummy had spoken, and word had come from Manhattan to meet them at Tibby's. Spot was terrified that again it was some devious scheme by Count, and he had been set on not attending. But Swifty had said it was urgent. And if anyone could lose a trail, if indeed he had been followed, it was Swifty. Spot tried to remind himself of that as he crossed the bridge and made his way to the small diner. As usual, only the newsies were the occupants there. Spot wondered how Tibby made any money.  
  
Spot saw Jack, Race, Twig, and several others surrounding a back table. He crossed over, and after a quick round of greetings they got down to business. Jack took the initiative and said to Spot, "Look, we discussed it, and we decided that we gotta move now, the sooner the better. Even if it means that Brooklyn ain't up to it completely, we have to send the message home that Count can't do this and get away with it. We gotta do it soon, before our guys get discouraged, and they get stronger."  
  
Jack looked ready for a full-fledged battle with Spot, but he and everyone were surprised when Spot calmly responded, "You're right." Jack and the others stood there, gaping, as Spot continued. " Brooklyn can't win by fighting this one. But Brooklyn has more to offer than brute force. I know it. My newsies know it, and I'm here to try and get you all to trust us. But Count doesn't."  
  
Silence ensued for a moment, until Race, apparently struggling to contain the smart ass within, couldn't contain it. He burst out, "Can we count on that?" Race ducked as everyone threw their napkins at him, groaning. Immediately after, the serious atmosphere reclaimed everyone, and finally Jack said, "We know there's more to Brooklyn than brute force, Spot. We know you guys got heart, and all that. But what makes you think you can win this?"  
  
Spot leaned back. He hadn't felt this much like himself, the great Spot Conlon of the greatest borough, in a long time. He tipped his hat at Jack, flashed his quirky smirk and said glibly, "We got more than that, Jacky boy. We're all street rats, we know the rules of the street better than anyone. But more importantly, nobody knows how to use those rules better than Brooklyn. Now fellas, listen up." Spot leaned forward and began to slowly explain the plan he and Rummy had cooked up. Everyone else simply held on and watched, and Spot took the leader position he had re-grown to love.  
  
Rummy led the way to Harlem. He had never been there before, but Spot had given him fine directions. With him was ten Brooklyn newsies. They weren't the largest newsies; in fact, little Crackhead was with them. But they didn't want to look too intimidating, that wasn't the plan. No Neck was with them, though. He was pretty beat up, but he was the only really tough, big newsie that wasn't too hurt or well known to cause a panic. He also wasn't known to be too close to Spot, and that would work in their advantage as well.  
  
The Harlem Lodging House loomed ahead. Several Harlem newsies were hanging out on the steps, but when they saw the Brooklyn delegation, they quickly stood up. One ran up the stairs, probably to inform Count. Rummy heard No Neck say through clenched teeth, "They can't even stand their own ground without letting Count know and getting approval. Are they newsies, or what?"  
  
Rummy whispered back, "That's what we're here to find out." They slowly approached, until the two boroughs had lined up facing each other. Ten Brooklyn to eight Harlem, at the moment. All eight Harlem had looks between smug confidence at having defeated Brooklyn, and absolute terror at..the same. One that had been seen going after Carver was present, and looked petrified at No Neck. To his credit, No Neck held in his fury well. None spoke until Buck came out.  
  
Swaggering, hands on hips, he questioned loudly, "Give me one good reason why I don't let these boys pummel you all.again?" Over his shoulder, Rummy heard Crackhead hiss, "Because you couldn't!" Nonchalantly, Rummy elbowed him to be quiet, even though none of Harlem had heard. Rummy ignored his question, saying, "We have to speak to Count."  
  
Buck placed a hand over his heart in mock faint. "And I won't do? I'm hurt." When he received no laughter, his eyes narrowed and he spat, "None of you Brooklyn scum get to see Count." Rummy prayed to the gods of temperance to help keep Brooklyn's newsies' tempers under control, as he replied, "Well, good for that news. We aren't part of Brooklyn anymore."  
  
At that, a surprised silence befell all. Buck looked around helplessly, before finally realizing that he was in charge there. Rummy wondered why Count had put him as second. Maybe he was the only one who Count could trust. Knowing what he did about Count, he guessed he didn't trust too easily. Shuffling a bit, trying to act in control, Buck finally said, "Ok, fine, you can go up to see the boss, but the rest of your boys have gotta stay down here."  
  
Rummy crossed his arms and said defiantly, "You can't expect me to go up there alone?" At that, Buck shuffled some more, before scratching his head and saying, "Uh, no, of course not. I meant, you can come up here, but someone's gotta stay down here. That one," he pointed at No Neck, "He's gotta stay here as.a.what's the word?" Rummy shook his head impatiently. "Never mind, we get it. You sure about that?" Rummy turned to look at No Neck. The tall Brooklyn newsie folded his arms at that, looking very pleased with the arrangement. The one that had gotten Carver looked much less pleased. The other seven looked less than giddy as well.  
  
Rummy smiled internally. Before Buck could change his mind, he, Crackhead, and the others hurried up the stairs, leaving one very vexed Brooklyn newsie, and eight now backing up Harlem newsies, to get reacquainted. The house was in between Manhattan's and Brooklyn's. It was more worn than Manhattan but lacked any of the character of Brooklyn's. Once upstairs, they waited to be announced, and then entered the bunk room. It was similar to most newsies' bunk rooms. Some newsies were arguing, some sleeping, one reading, the young ones playing marbles and the older ones playing cards. Rummy surveyed the room, until his eyes landed on the other guy who had been at the diner his first night as a newsie.  
  
Count hadn't changed. He still looked full of himself, more so than Spot or Jack. He was dressed in pants and an undershirt, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He stood in the middle of the room, all eyes upon him. Slowly exhaling, he said, "Well, well, well, if it ain't the little tugboat that couldn't. Where's your leader, Spotty? Is little puppy still with his tail between his legs?" At than, Harlem took its cue from their leader and laughed. Rummy merely stood there, unshaken, and Brooklyn took its cue from him. He calmly said, "Yes, I believe he is."  
  
That shut them up. Count stared at him suspiciously, as any good leader would. Rummy continued. "I imagine any leader would be, after the hit you threw him. It was perfect." At that, Count let a small smile slip out, but he still had his guard up. "Oh, ya liked that? My boys can give you some more, if you're into getting killed." Before he could advance, Rummy cut in smoothly. "You misunderstand. We aren't part of Brooklyn anymore. We don't want to be part of a territory that has its leader desert, and can't protect itself. He wasn't even there for the fight."  
  
Count looked less hostile, but still wary. "Spot bailed, huh? Can't say I blame him. But why should I believe you?" Rummy smiled. "Good question. Frankly, I think the answer, at least in my case, is simple. I have no loyalty to Spot. Hell, I've only been a newsie for a few days, and most of those have been getting beaten up. I live on the streets, I know this life. All if want is to make a living, and I figure the best way to do that, to look out for my interests, is to hook up with the best leader. That would be you."  
  
Count smiled. Rummy couldn't think of a person who didn't like to be complemented. He continued. "And these other guys, well, Spot didn't get close to anybody. This is how it is in Brooklyn. You look out for yourself. I didn't want to come to Harlem alone, so I convinced these guys to come along. It's all self-interest. I'm sure you can understand that." Finally Rummy paused. Count looked at the three Harlem newsies that used to be Brooklyn ones, and they nodded their agreement. Count was looking him up and down, before finally saying, "You were the one who couldn't throw a punch, right? Why would I want you?"  
  
"Well, all the Brooklyn newsies who could throw a punch are now dead, by you, and I'm still here, so I figure you could use a newsie who has brains instead. We last longer. And these guys with me have the muscle." Rummy shot back. Count paced a moment, before finally turning around. A malicious smile played on his lips as he said, "Well, I'd be more than happy to have you all." With a hand he quieted down the roar of protest from Harlem. "With, of course, a little loyalty test."  
  
Rummy gave no reaction. He merely said calmly, "That sounds more than fair. What do you want us to do?" If Count was surprised by this, he hid it well. Pacing again, he drawled, "Oh, I don't know. There are so many options. What to do, what to do? I guess I could always ask you to bring me something. Or someone. The bloody, lifeless body of your former leader should about do it, wouldn't ya say?" At that, he spun and faced Rummy and the others. All of Harlem hooted in agreement. Rummy wanted to smile as well. It was all running, well, as good as Count's hit had.  
  
"Sounds fair. See ya in a few." Rummy and the others had started heading back out, when Count stopped them. "You can't honestly expect me to let you go alone, do you? How do I know Spot ain't already dead? Or that you are just gonna run information back to him?" Rummy shrugged, indicating that this was, indeed, a problem. Then Count offered, "I guess I could let you take some of my boys with you, to make sure. There's ten of you.ill send thirty, just to make sure you don't try nothing on them. When you got him, come back."  
  
Rummy feigned regret. "Oh, you're not coming with us?" At that Count burst out laughing. "What do you think I am, an idiot? Come back here when you're done. And don't get any revenge ideas. I'm sending some good ones.you remember, the ones that kicked your asses before? The only reason I'm giving you this chance is because you seem smart. I could use a man like you, if you're serious." With that, Count ran off the names of the chaperons. It included the scabbing former Brooklyn newsies. With a final nod, Rummy led the way down the stairs. Miraculously, neither No Neck nor the eight Harlem newsies out on the porch before were around. Leading the way, Rummy thought that, whether hot or cold, revenge was dish that would always taste sweet.  
  
Rummy led the way into Brooklyn, keeping them on winding streets until finally a Harlem newsie named Twister complained. "I don't think you even know where this Spot Conlon is!" The other Harlem newsies murmured in agreement. Rummy kept them moving for a couple more blocks, into a dead-end alley, before finally stopping and saying, "Well, patience is not always rewarded." Looking at the confused faces on the Harlem newsies' faces, Rummy continued. "True, I must confess, I lied. I do not know where Spot is. This was all a big misuse of trust, and I feel so ashamed." At that he stepped forward, and gave a wide smile. Noises could be heard at the entrance, and suddenly ten other Brooklyn newsies appeared. They had taken off their bandages, and most were still barely conscious. Ripping his nose bandage off, Rummy said, "And this beating we are going to give you certainly won't help develop our relationship."  
  
Twister laughed, saying, "Brooklyn really is as stupid as Count said! We outnumber you guys, and you're already half dead! It'll be like a massacre!" At that, Brooklyn and Harlem resumed fighting, Harlem using the weapons they brought, Brooklyn merely defending themselves. Slipping out of the alley, Rummy added quietly, "Well, It only has to look like a massacre." He ran down the street, to where some policemen were gathered. Panting and feigning fear, he cried out, "Officers, help us please! Some kids from Harlem came in here, and we were just going back from selling our papers, and they started killing us! My dad is a respectable, voting member of the Brooklyn community, and he will be very upset by this!"  
  
The bulls hurried after Rummy, and indeed, the scene they found there, Brooklyn newsies lying bloodied and broken on the floor, Harlem newsies standing over them with weapons poised to beat, was true to what Rummy said. When the police whistle went off, Harlem looked up and tried to run, but the Brooklyn newsies managed to trip most of them, and the bulls blocked the rest. Handcuffing and dragging off Harlem's finest, several of the bulls promised to bring around ambulance wagons to take the Brooklyn newsies back to the hospital. One even tossed Rummy a quarter, saying that he was planning on running for office someday, and hoped that Rummy would relay the good work he'd done as an officer to his voting father.  
  
Pocketing the change, Rummy left Crackhead with the injured newsies, while he and the rest ran back to Harlem, not wanting to be late for the final scene. Once making it to Harlem, they carefully snuck around the lookouts Count had posted until the reached the park near the lodging. Rummy was amazed at how many newsies were camouflaged there, and sure plenty more were nearby. He met Jack and Spot, and said, "Everything went perfectly. I don't think we lost anybody, but all of Harlem was taken. Ready?" Rummy didn't need to ask. Even in the dark he saw the gleam in Jack and Spot's eyes. Spot nodded. "Hell yea."  
  
Once inside the lodging, Rummy went in first. Count stood up and said, surprised, "That was fast. Good work. Where is he?" Rummy smiled, stepping back to reveal the other eight Brooklyn newsies, plus the addition of a still breathing Spot. Count, to his credit, recovered fast, and said, "Oh, is this pathetic. What, you want to go down fighting? Fine, we can kick your asses again." As he and the other Harlem newsies in the room approached, Spot said snidely, "Oh, I hardly doubt that'll happen." Swiftly pulling out his slingshot, he shot and crashed the window behind Count. Count stood there confused for a minute, thinking Spot had somehow missed, when he realized by the sounds of hundreds of newsies rushing into the lodge that the shot had been a signal.  
  
The look on Count's face was priceless. Spot almost wished it didn't have to end, but quickly he and Count had singled each other out. Well, at least I'll get to soak that angry look off of him, Spot consoled himself. Slowly circling, Spot went into his fighter's trance. It was a calm zone, where he focused on nothing else but the relish of pummeling Count. Jack and Twig had offered to take on Count, but Spot had refused. No matter how sick he was, or how broken or tired, he would not lose to Count. Even if he died from it, he would keep going until he had avenged Brooklyn.  
  
Count wasn't willing to give the first strike. Fine, thought Spot. Softly, but without weakness, he said, "This one's for you, guys." Then pushing Badger and Carver out of his mind, he moved in on Count, faking with a right to the stomach and getting in a good jab to Count's chin. Count stumbled back, but soon retaliated. They went round, trading punches. It was hard to tell for Spot if he was getting the worst end or not. He thought he was getting in more shots, but he was in worse shape to begin with. Count went for his knee, cracking in, and as Spot went down he felt a sharp pain in his left ankle again, which still hadn't healed. Praying it would support him, he lunged at Count's chest, pulling him down and rolling on top, breaking Count's nose with his cane.  
  
Somehow, Count found a bat and swung it, managing to land blows to Spot's back, legs, and arms. His shoulder that had been dislocated years before threatened to spasm. Spot forced himself to calm, knowing it was the calculating fighter, not the strongest fighter, that was the best equipped to win. Count held the bat in his right hand. He was right-handed. Therefore, when he swung, he would be leaning in facing right. Spot positioned himself, letting Count get in a few shots, then before blacking out rammed his cane into Count's neck. Count thrust his head back, choking. While he was like that Spot grabbed the bat from his hands and slammed Count's knees, sending him crashing to the ground. Climbing over him, Spot threw one perfect blow, sans bat, to Count's temple, rendering him unconscious.  
  
Then he paused, standing over Count, bat still in his hand. He should be able to do this. One swing, and Count would never bother them again. Count had had no problem killing Spot's newsies, or at least ordering it to be done. If Count could make that choice, for his newsies, didn't that make him the better, stronger leader? It wasn't as if Count could be arrested for anything, and even if he were it wouldn't be for long. And Count wouldn't just stay out of New York. He'd come after Spot and the others again. It was Spot's responsibility to protect his newsies, even if it meant sacrificing himself.  
  
He raised the bat, then thought back to his conversation with Rummy. How Rummy had defined himself. He didn't steal from children, and he wasn't a murderer. Sure, it had been a joke at the time, but still, Rummy had said that, because of this, he wasn't like Count. He had morals. Spot never thought of himself as having morals before, but the few times he'd come close to killing someone, he'd always stopped or been stopped. Now there was no one. It was his call, as the leader, not as a regular guy.  
  
Spot looked around. The room was mostly empty, Manhattan and the Bronx having soaked Harlem. Outside, Spot could hear the battle still raging on, but from the voices he knew that Harlem was getting their asses whipped this time. Not feeling a smile, Spot brought the bat down in a series of fast, hard blows to Count's legs, arms, and stomach. He heard bones crack, and no doubt he'd done some injury. But he didn't touch Count's head. Finally stepping back, Spot looked down. Count was covered in blood, and he was breathing shallowly. He was still alive, but whether he would make it, Spot really wasn't sure. It was unlikely he would receive medical attention anytime soon. Count would have to pull through this one on his own. He didn't know if that made him a murderer or not. Spot let the bat slip from his fingers and limped out of the room, leaving Count's fate to nature, and God, if he existed. Badger and Carver were avenged, but that feeling would only last a little while. Spot knew that, and knew that grief, if he could still feel it, would come after and last longer. And Count? Well, Spot wasn't sure he could like or respect him all the more if he didn't die. 


	7. A New Round

Disclaimer-I own nothing related to Newsies, it's all Disney.  
  
Part 7: A New Round  
  
Rummy walked down the hospital hall. It was the morning after they had hit Harlem, and he was visiting the Brooklyn newsies. He couldn't help but smile, though it was bittersweet. No one could deny that the Brooklyn newsies were more than self-centered brutes, but the cost had been three more lives. Rummy wondered if Spot knew. Standing outside a door, he took a deep breath and went in to find out.  
  
Spot lay on the bed, dressed in street clothing. His hospital gown lay crumpled on the floor, but he wasn't wearing his blood and dirt stained battle clothes either. Crackhead, who was standing at Spot's side, must have brought him the change. Rummy quietly walked over and looked down. Spot's face and arms were covered in bruises and cuts. His breathing was harsh and raspy. After the fight, he had collapsed, and been taken back to Brooklyn because he insisted on being with his newsies. He refused care up unto the point he passed out. Now he didn't look improved at all, his face porcelain white except for some bright splotches of red from fever.  
  
Crackhead looked so nurturing that Rummy had to smile. Motioning Rummy to be quiet, since Spot appeared asleep, he whispered, "The Doc's said he's got pneumonia. He also broke some ribs, and cracked some other things. I know its Spot and all, but.do you think he'll make it?" Crackhead looked anxious, as if asking such a question was blasphemous. But Rummy could understand his concern. He was mildly surprised to realize he shared it.  
  
Suddenly, a weak, faint, but unmistakable Brooklyn accent belonging to Spot cut in. "Please..I'm from Brooklyn. A Brooklyn newsie ain't.never.gonna..be a lost cause from some Harlem scum." Slowly Spot's eye's opened. Though red and tired, they had the famous Spot Conlon glint. A crack of his lips, resembling his goofy, quirky smirk showed through the pain.  
  
Crackhead actually yelped in cheer, ready to lung on Spot for a hug when Rummy pulled him off. Spot smiled at him, and tried to laugh, but it sent him into fits of coughs. Crackhead looked nervous, until Spot lay back down and motioned him over. Grasping Crackhead's hand, he said, "Crack, why don't you tell Rummy his new Brooklyn newsie name?" Crack turned excitedly, and positively beaming said, "Well, since you're good at mind games, and smart at figuring people and plans out, we named you.Game Plan!"  
  
Spot smiled at Rummy's attempted look at pleasure. "Oh, thanks Crack. Actually, that would fit." Disappointed, Crack turned back to Spot, who shrugged and said, "Don't worry about it kid. I like it." Crack, looking like he'd been given the best gift in the world from those words, whispered, "I'm glad I could help. The hardest thing I ever had to do was pretend that I didn't want you as a leader any more." Blushing as he said that, Crack scrambled out of the room, leaving Rummy and Spot alone.  
  
Rummy approached Spot, saying, "That is one great kid." Spot smiled and nodded, but he looked like he was struggling to stay awake. Not thinking Spot would die anymore, Rummy nonetheless thought he should make his visit as quick as possible. Spot must have had the same idea, because he said, yawning, "I'm really tired. Not to freak you out or anything, cause I'm fine, but the longer I stay awake, the more everything hurts. I don't think I can keep from falling asleep much longer."  
  
Rummy nodded and said, smiling, "Well, at least while your in here you'll get to rest. I'm sure Crack will make sure of that." He relayed the news about the three other newsies, and Spot looked pained, but accepted the information without any other reaction. Then Rummy paused and said, "Thanks for everything, Spot, but.I decided I'm leaving the newsies." Looking, Spot reacted calmly to this, whether from medication or not Rummy wasn't sure. Spot said, "I kinda figured you would. I mean, I thought it might go either way, but I respect your decision."  
  
Rummy nodded slowly. "It's not that I don't like being a newsie, but I just don't see myself as one. I thought about it, and I realized that I like hanging out with the guys, and being part of the cause, but selling papers isn't for me. I miss gambling, and I miss stealing. I know it isn't right, but it all depends of who you steal from, like..."  
  
"Like what you lie about?" Spot interjected softly. Rummy nodded, and Spot said, "I get it. I mean, I don't really, but that's because I am a newsie. I can't imagine not being one, or at least not being part of the newspaper business. If the thieves and gamblers are like you, I'm sure I'd like to hang out with them, but I wouldn't give up being a newsie. Especially in Brooklyn. Just don't forget about us, come and visit, okay?" Spot added with a fake stern note in his voice. Considering the position he was in, Rummy had to laugh.  
  
"Don't worry. I'll hook you and Race up with good games all the time. We'll just be honest with one another, from now on, okay? I don't want another Conlon soaking." Rummy joked, but Spot feigned a hurt expression. "I ain't never told you a lie! You were the one that did that, mister."  
  
Rummy raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? What about what you told me about that key you wear around your neck?" At his mention of the key, Spot suddenly broke into a wide smile. Innocently he asked, "What about it?" Rummy sighed, then said, "Fine, I'll play along. You told me that a princess in the United States gave it to you." Spot nodded, and said, "Yea, so?"  
  
Rummy threw his hands up in frustration. "There is no princess of the United States!" He crossed his arms, waiting for Spot to come clean. But Spot merely shrugged, and fingering the key said, "I told you the truth. Her title was princess. Everyone called her princess." Then the quirky smirk came back. "I just neglected to add that she walked on all fours, had a tail, and looked suspiciously like a dog." Seeing Rummy's disbelieving stare, Spot said, "Don't look at me like that! You'll make me laugh again, and that hurts like hell! Anyway, it was my first day on the streets in Brooklyn, and here comes this dog, carrying this key. She stopped in front of me and dropped it at my feet, waiting for me to pick it up. It was like she was handing me the key to the city! Once I had, her owner called her off, saying the name princess. So I kept the key and told most of the story. But I didn't lie."  
  
Rummy couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, like bluffing ain't cheating. That works." He saw a weird expression on Spot's face, and quickly asked, "Should I get a doctor?" Spot impatiently waved him off. "No, stop treating me like a baby. I was just thinking, since I kept the key, I hope it wasn't to something important that the owner needed." Then he shrugged. "Oh well. What?" Spot looked suspiciously at Rummy, who was smiling and shaking his head. Rummy just said, "It's nothing. I'm just thinking how, the first day I met you, I didn't really expect you to be so.funny. Goofy funny. It doesn't really fit, but then it does. I don't know, sorry. At least you can't soak me now, I think I could outrun you."  
  
Nonetheless, Rummy backed away, laughing and holding his hands up in mock self defense, as Spot tried not to laugh. Spot finally said, "And I thought that you were a conniving wuss when I first met you. Now I realize you're just conniving." At that a spasm took Spot's chest. Once it'd quieted, Spot said, "I think I need to sleep for awhile. But I'll see you soon." At that, they shook carefully, and Spot finally let his eyelids close. On his way out, Rummy paused to turn and say, "And maybe then you can tell me the truth about where you got that cheap cane." But his insult was lost, seen as Spot was already fast asleep. Smiling, closing the door behind him, Rummy was sure he'd have plenty of more chances to insult, and get soaked for not keeping his mouth shut, by the leader of the Brooklyn newsies. He hadn't been that changed by the recent experience. But it was much easier to go out onto the streets now, to stake his new claim, knowing that he had some new rules to play by, as well as the newsies in his life.  
  
The End 


End file.
